The burnished conference table was as soulless and unyielding as the mood of the

eight Imperial Senators and officers ranged around it. Imperial troopers stood guard

at the entrance to the chamber, which was sparse and coldly lit from lights in the table

and walks. One of the youngest of the eight was declaiming. He exhibited the

attitude of one who had climbed far and fast by methods best not examined too

closely. General Tagge did possess a certain twisted genius, but it was only partly

that ability which had lifted him to his present exalted position. Other noisome

talents had proven equally efficacious.

Though his uniform was as neatly molded and his body as cleans as that of

anyone else in the room, none of the remaining seven cared to touch him. A certain

sliminess clung cloyingly to him, a sensation inferred rather than tactile. Despite

this, many respected him. Or feared him.

"I tell you, he's gone too far this time," the General was insisting vehemently.

"This is Sith Lord inflicted on us at the urging of the Emperor will be our undoing.

Until the battle station is fully operational, we remain vulnerable.

"Some of you still don't seem to realize how well equipped and organized the

rebel Alliance is. Their vessel are excellent, their pilots better. And they are

propelled by something more powerful than mere engines: this perverse, reactionary

fanaticism of theirs. They're more dangerous than most of you realize."

An older officer, with facial scars so deeply engraved that even the best cosmetic

surgery could not fully repair them, shifted nervously in his chair. "Dangerous to

your starfleet, General Tagge, but not to this battle station." Wizened eyes hopped

from man to man, traveling around the table. "I happen to think Lord Vader knows

what he's doing. The rebellion will continue only as long as those cowards have a

sanctuary, a place where their pilots can relax and their machines can be repaired."

Tagge objected. "I beg to differ with you, Romodi. I think the construction of

this station has more to do with Governor Tarkin's bid for personal power and

recognition than with any justifiable military strategy. Within the Senate the rebels

will continue to increase their support as long—"

The sound of the single doorway sliding aside and the guards snapping to

attention cut him off. His head turned, as did everyone else's.

Two individuals as different in appearance as they were united in objective had

entered the chamber. The nearest to Tagge was a thin, hatchet-faced man with hair

and form borrowed from an old broom and the expression of a quiescent piranha.

The Grand Moff Tarkin, Governor of numerous outlying Imperial territories, was

dwarfed by broad, armored bulk of Lord Darth Vader.

Tagge, unintimidated but subdued, slowly resumed his seat as Tarkin assumed

his place at the end of the conference table. Vader stood next to him, a dominating

presence behind the Governor's chair. For a minute Tarkin stared directly at Tagge,

then glanced away as if he had seen nothing. Tagge fumed but remained silent.

As Tarkin's gaze roved around the table a razor-thin smile of satisfaction

remained frozen in his features. "The Imperial Senate will no longer be of any

concern to us, gentlemen. I have just receive word that the Emperor has

permanently dissolved that misguided body."

A ripple of astonishment ran through the assembly. "The last remnants," Tarkin

continued, "of the Old Republic have finally been swept away."

"This is impossible," Tagge interjected. "How will the Emperor maintain

control of the Imperial bureau-crazy?"

"Senatorial representation has not been formally abolished, you must

understand," Tarkin explained. "It has merely been superseded for the—" he smiled

a bit more—"duration of the emergency. Regional Governors will now have direct

control and a free hand in administering their territories. This means that the

Imperial presence can at last be brought to bear properly on the vacillating worlds of

the Empire. From now on, fear will keep potentially traitorous local government in

line. Fear of the Imperial fleet—and fear of this battle station."

"And what of the existing rebellion?" Tagge wanted to know.

"If the rebels somehow managed to gain access to a complete technical schema

of this battle station, it is remotely possible that they might be able to locate a

weakness susceptible to minor exploitation." Tarkin's smile shifted to a smirk. "Of

course, we all know how well guarded, how carefully protected, such vital data is. It

could not possibly fall into rebel hands."

"The technical data to which you are obliquely referring," rumbled Darth Vader

angrily, "will soon be back in our hands. If—"

Tarkin shook the Dark Lord off, something no one else at the table would have

dared to do. "It is immaterial. Any attack made against this station by the rebels

would be a suicidal gesture, suicidal and useless—regardless of any information they

managed to obtain. After many long years of secretive construction," he declared

with evident pleasure, "this station has become the decisive force in this part of the

universe. Events in this region of the galaxy will no longer be determined by fate,

by decree, or by any other agency. They will be decided by this station!"

A huge metal-clad hand gestured slightly, and one of the filled cups on the table

drifted responsively into it. With a slightly admonishing tone the Dark Lord

continued. "Don't become too proud of this technological terror you've spawned,

Tarkin. The ability to destroy a city, a world, a whole system is still insignificant

when set against the force."

"The Force," Tagge sneered. "Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerer's way,

Lord Vader. Your sad devotion to that ancient mythology has not helped you to

conjure up those stolen tapes, or gifted you with clairvoyance sufficient to locate the

rebel's hidden fortress. Why, it's enough to make one laugh fit to—"

Tagge's eyes abruptly bulged and his hands went to his throat as he began to turn

a disconcerting shade of blue.

"I find," Vader ventured mildly, "this lack of faith disturbing."

"Enough of this," Tarkin snapped, distressed. "Vader, release him. This

bickering among ourselves is pointless."

Vader shrugged as if it were of no consequence. Tagge slumped in his seat,

rubbing his throat, his wary gaze never leaving the dark giant.

"Lord Vader will provide us with the location of the rebel fortress by the time

this station is certified operational," Tarkin declared. "That known, we will proceed

to it and destroy it utterly, crushing this pathetic rebellion in one swift stoke."

"As the Emperor wills it," Vader added, not without sarcasm, "so shall it be."

If any of the powerful men seated around the table found this disrespectful tone

objectionable, a glance at Tagge was sufficient to dissuade them from mentioning it.

The dim prison reeked of rancid oil and stale lubricants, a veritable metallic

charnel house. Threepio endured the discomfiting atmosphere as best he could. It

was a constant battle to avoid being thrown by every unexpected bounce into the

walls or into a fellow machine.

To conserve power—and also to avoid the steady stream of complaints from his

taller companion—Artoo Detoo had shut down all exterior functions. He lay inert

among a pile of secondary parts, sublimely unconcerned at the moment as to their fate.

"Will this never end?" Threepio was moaning as another violent jolt roughly

jostled the inhabitants of the prison. He had already formulated and discarded half a

hundred horrible ends. He was certain only that their eventual disposition was sure

to be worse than anything he could imagine.

Then, quite without warning, something more unsettling than even the most

battering bump took place. The sandcrawler's whine died, and the vehicle came to a

halt—almost as if in response to Threepio's query. A nervous buzz rose from those

mechanicals who still retained a semblance of sentience as they speculated on their

present location and probable fate.

At least Threepio was no longer ignorant of his captors or of their likely motives.

Local captives had explained the nature of the quasi-human mechanic migrants, the

jawas. Traveling in their enormous mobile fortress-homes, they scoured the most

inhospitable regions of Tatooine in search of valuable minerals—and salvageable

machinery. They had never been seen outside of their protective cloaks and

sandmasks, so no one knew exactly what they looked like. But they were reputed to

be extraordinarily ugly. Threepio did not have to be convinced.

Leaning over his still-motionless companion, he began a steady shaking of the

barrel-like torso. Epidermal sensors were activated on the Artoo unit, and the lights

on the front side of the little robot began a sequential awakening.

"Wake up, wake up," Threepio urged. "We've stopped someplace." Like

several of the other, more imaginative robots, his eyes were warily scanning metal

walls, expecting a hidden panel to slide aside at any moment and a giant mechanical

arm to come probing and fumbling for him.

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